


NIGHTHAWKS

by eeshatrbl



Category: ATEEZ (Band), Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: 1970s, Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blood and Gore, Bottom Jung Wooyoung, Cigarettes, Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Homophobia, I give up, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Light Sadism, M/M, Night Terrors, Other idols as side characters, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Pentagon, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Sex, Violence, Voyeurism, fucking hell this is difficult, i can not tag, maybe character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeshatrbl/pseuds/eeshatrbl
Summary: in which they were meant to be all along; in a dream that was not his, nor his lover's.ORwooyoung asks the pretty-haired boy in his night terrors to make them stop.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Jung Wooseok/Adachi Akari
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. PART ZERO

**Author's Note:**

> KJSDHAJDS LET'S GO  
> i. am. terrified.  
> this is my first ateez fic which i'm aCtuALLY serious about. i've done so so much research (originally for a chanbaek fic i never got past 5k words lmAo) and i've written this so carefully.
> 
> i hope you enjoy it, i guess.
> 
> or just excuse this unbeta-ed work.

**† ZERO**

_strong._  
he was strong.  
stronger.  
stronger than me, stronger than you, stronger than the walls we’re in; stronger than the beat he played—he was stronger than the marks he left on me.  
he was so _fucking_ strong,  
and they always let the strong ones fall.

creator in the body of a soldier—wild and young.  
prometheus.  
mortals maketh kingdoms, kingdoms maketh gods.  
yet he had his fall.  
_terrible_. so terrible, even the flowers on his grave wept from sorrow—even the stars were devoid of their flames.  
and he was so _fucking_ strong—he lost himself in the battle.


	2. ONE

Wooyoung’s thoughts existed in between the realm of heaven and earth.

Even if he had no control over the loops and loops of consciousness and unconsciousness in his head, he lived on with the laughable fuel it provided him. The cold breezes had already made their way towards Wooyoung’s bedroom window, tracing warm breaths on the tainted glass—providing him a better platform to peacefully fall asleep. And Wooyoung dearly wished it worked that way.

Wooyoung’s mind was a dangerous place. It was a boy, not much older than himself, and it took shape every time his insomnia was reaching a cure. Every, single, time.

It was the pretty-haired boy. It talked to him, and Wooyoung felt his voice echo through his body, bouncing back and forth in his heart and lungs. _His_ pretty-haired boy who sang him to sleep when it started, and woke him up when he calmed. _His_ pretty-haired boy who showed him pictures and films like the projector in his law school.

He didn’t really know when it started—but it went like a never-ending loop. A pinwheel. 

Drained out of power and will to work for longer, Wooyoung would make his way to his bed, curling himself up in the warm embrace of his quilts and pillows. He would inhale the nothingness, and find comfort in the void of sound. And then Wooyoung would close his eyes, falling dreadfully, but slowly, into the arms of slumber. There he would meet the pretty-haired boy, and _his_ pretty-haired boy would smile at him with so much affection.

It hurt.

The smile. 

The serenity.

Wooyoung only wished that _his_ pretty-haired boy wouldn’t look so serene and calming, before churning into an abyss of his worst nightmares.

This was when he longed for the gods to have some mercy on Adam—granting him the power of strong will and manipulation of his own thoughts—for the Garden of Eden would’ve been man’s own abode.

He wished, so _badly_ , so wake up, but _his_ pretty-haired boy would keep him captivated, even before the show. The pretty-haired boy would walk up to him, graze his fingers on his arms, feel his skin burn strokes upon every touch, then leave him deprived of the heat. _His_ pretty-haired boy kissed his skin with the crusts of his lips, then pierce his cold, sharp teeth into his skin. He would run knives across the concurrence of his cheeks—and Wooyoung would dreadfully, but slowly, feel his blood drip on the expanse of his skin.

His hands would be frozen, his limbs would be iced—and just when he would yearn for some heat, _his_ pretty-haired boy would empty a bag of burning coals onto him.

 _His_ pretty-haired boy would painfully pull out each strand of his hair.

 _His_ pretty-haired boy would scrape off every part of his skin.

 _His_ pretty-haired boy would push him into the pit of hellfire.

 _His_ pretty-haired boy would shoot a bullet through his heart like a hunting reindeer.

 _His_ pretty-haired boy would fill up his lungs with black, obscure tar.

And _his_ pretty-haired boy won’t let him wake up till he was tired of his desire.

Wooyoung sometimes wondered if Yunho had a pretty-haired boy of his own. But he didn’t know how to ask him about it, maybe pretty-haired boys were supposed to be our own little things. He even wondered if the pretty-haired boys were supposed to be fresh in their mind even when they were wide awake and sleepless. Maybe _his_ pretty-haired boy was malfunctioning—he stayed in his mind like an old catchy song from a karaoke trip, or a chewing gum commercial’s jingle.

When he was fifteen, and the pretty-haired boy had been with him for about six years, he asked Yunho if having constant nightmares was normal. Wooyoung vividly remembered the day, it replayed all the fucking time, reminding of how he’s been growing more and more insane every time he wakes up. Yunho was in his bed, both of them staring at the ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars, and Yunho finally asked him: “What are they about?”

“A boy.” Wooyoung spoke. He had run out of fear, and was exhausted of the idea of _‘it’ll get over soon’_.

“How specific.”

Wooyoung sighed. It was hard to explain, but it was the perfect time. He turned to face his cousin, who was already all ears (and all eyes, judging by how they were wide open like the window in the living room for Santa to come in). “I really don’t know. The boy in my dreams, he just, he…he just does _bad things_ to me.”

Wooyoung could notice how Yunho’s body jerked slightly with curiosity. “What _kind_ of ‘bad things’?”

“All kinds of bad things.”

And Wooyoung dropped the topic. He didn’t want to talk about it any longer.

Seven years had passed, and Yunho still didn’t know the degree of repugnance his cousin’s ‘bad dreams’ had, even if he could hear soft sobs at four in the morning from the room opposite to his.

+

Morning routines at the Jung Mansion were equally gruesome. 

The fact that Wooyoung had to be up by six, dressed by seven, and sane by seven thirty for the pathetic family breakfast was agonizing. He didn’t really know why he hated them so much, but he calmed himself with the reasoning of the hustle being unnecessary.

Family dynamics worked very well, until the flow of energy reached Wooyoung. Jung Gangjae made sure each one of the people present in the dining room at seven thirty have the best morning ahead, and it somehow managed to burden his middle child. Being the head of the family, he would sit on the biggest chair—his actress wife, businessman son, and baseball prodigy on his right, and his plump sister, her husband, and Yunho on his left. Wooyoung somehow landed right across the old man, staring into his morning tea cup poured with expectations.

While the rest of the family would chatter and laugh, Wooyoung would either have his mind blooming with the memory of the previous night’s dream like the dark fields after nightfall, or engulfed in telling some lame joke to his younger brother, Woojin, to look like he was busy enough to avoid any conversation with his father. Sometimes Yunho would join in, and it would be hell lot of fun. Their little sand castle would fall once the clock struck eight, and Yunho got up to start his day for work.

The morning of Christmas Eve wasn’t any different, except for the assortment of hollies and Christmas lights embellishing the walls of the dining room.

Wooyoung was (luckily) going through insomnia, and even if he looked exhausted and frail, he was glad he was sane. He hadn’t slept for the past week anyway, so he decided to slip on a sweater and wait in the dining room for the rest of the family. Unlike rest of the days, Woojin ran into the room, straight to Wooyoung, and hugged him, still in his pyjamas instead of his school uniform. The older chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair, and then smacking his head rather hard. 

“What the _fuck_ did you do that for?” Woojin exclaimed, rubbing his head with his hand to soothe the pain.

“I don’t know. I just felt like it,” Wooyoung smiled, “and who the fuck taught you to swear?”

“You, hyung.”

Wooyoung was well aware of that. He just smiled at the response, watching his brother take a seat nearest to him. 

“Merry christmas in advance!” Yunho exclaimed, walking in the dining room, followed by his mother.

“I don’t think it works that way, hyung.”

“Let me be happy, Woojin.”

“You’re still utterly wrong.”

“Come here you little—” and Wooyoung didn’t really mind the two bickering early in the morning.

+

Late night parties at the Jung Mansion were a sigh of relief for Wooyoung, an actual reason to stay awake and out of his bedroom. It did come with a few drawbacks—like the awkwardness of not remembering his uncle’s wife’s sister’s second husband’s friend, or that crappy director his mother had worked with before he was even born, or some of Wooseok’s business clients.

He didn’t really have a friend circle of his own, so he mingled with Yunho’s workplace acquaintances and colleagues. He might’ve grown closer with a few—people from the entertainment agency his cousin belonged to—but again, they were Yunho’s friends, not his. 

Wooyoung thought of this Christmas as livelier than the last. Woojin’s classmates couldn’t make it in time, so the young kid just made himself busy with playing football at midnight with the chauffeur’s son. Wooyoung decided to tag along and watch the match from afar. His younger brother’s giggles and laughter, and his opponent’s intentional fouls made him feel a bit better than talking about the industry. Wooyoung would occasionally stick his tongue out when he’d dodge the ball Woojin had aimed at him (and witness a fearful and apologetic Mingi from behind the twelve-year-old).

It was all fun and games, until he felt a slender arm wrap around his. “Why are you even here?”

Akari. Wooyoung remained silent. The petit woman smiled at him. “Let’s meet some of Wooseok’s business partners, how does that sound?”

Wooyoung was in no place to refuse. He let her drag him back to the party hall, stopping once in between to fix his bleached hair. He could spot Wooseok from quite a distance—he was uncomfortably tall and well-built, his elegance radiated in the hall. He wasn’t as graceful as his fiancé, though. Akari was stunning. Her sparkling navy evening gown, and the faux white fur on her shoulders, and that fatal smile of hers—Wooyoung couldn’t help but smile himself, graced by a beauty like that.

“Gentlemen” Akari bowed slightly, detaching her arm from Wooyoung, and linking it with Wooseok. One of the old men in the circle stepped forward and pecked her hand, and her cheeks flushed a mild pink.

The blond felt out of place. He was waiting for Wooseok to introduce him, or speak anything about him, or maybe just call him into the conversations of politics and architecture and building mechanisms. He just had an awkward smile on, and tried to take a few steps backwards—an attempt to break free.

Akari might’ve noticed it. She pulled Wooyoung back, interrupting the mini conference. “This is Jung Wooyoung, Wooseok’s younger brother.”

And it all went silent. Wooseok glared at him, and then at his fiancé, and back to the group of six. Akari gestured Wooyoung to bow, and he abruptly did, whispering a soft _‘hello’_.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Jung.”

“Pleased to meet you too, Mr…”—he glanced at Akari mouthing _‘Kim’_ —“Kim.”

It ended there. Wooseok still didn’t bother the younger, and Akari had given up efforts to make him feel included. Wooyoung excused himself, returning back to now-exhausted Mingi and Woojin. He heard the boy whine for some juice, and Mingi bowing to the younger—almost out of habit—before rushing to the kitchen to get some.

“Where did Akari take you?” He asked, detecting the elder’s presence.

“To meet hyung’s colleagues.”

Woojin’s nose crinkled in disgust, making his brother laugh. “I don’t know how she stands with people like them. In fact, I can’t believe she is marrying someone as boring as Wooseok hyung.”

“Who else do you think she should marry, then?” Wooyoung asked, rather curious. Mingi came up to the boy with a glass of room temperature orange juice.

“But I want cold juice!” Woojin wailed, returning the glass to him.

“It’s freezing cold here, master Woojin. You’re not supposed to have cold drinks. In fact, you’re not even supposed to have juice, but I got you some because you’re tired.” It made Wooyoung so uncomfortable how Mingi’s voice and his face were mismatched. It overall changed the perspective of the observer, making him look intimidating and bold, when he was gentle and cowardly. Woojin sighed, taking the juice back and drinking in hurriedly.

Wooyoung felt like he was intruding the duo’s bonding time, and he felt a bit guilty for butting in. It was hard to explain how this was his only choice—Woojin would shun him for not making friends with Yunho and the gang, and Mingi would just silently judge him for being so fucking weird. He bottled it all in, sealing it with a tight cork and put on a smile, trying to not feel so exiled. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, yeah,” Woojin sucked in the last few drops of juice, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Akari can marry me!”

Mingi just looked dumbfounded, clearly still not used to Woojin’s psychology. “But master Woojin, she’s older than you.”

“She’s two years older than hyung too,” Wooyoung decided to be on his brother’s side, ready to mess up with Mingi’s logical reasoning power. Wooyoung knew very well he’d regret this later on—Mingi would start malfunctioning, distracted by the uncanny thought of a twelve-year-old resolute to woo his sister-in-law away—and the entire blame would land on him and Woojin for having a conversation with the chauffeur’s son for longer than five minutes. However, he didn’t mind. He liked the way his heart pumped with mischief, and he liked how this Christmas was luckily less eventful than the previous.

“She’s so beautiful _and_ nice—I didn’t even know that was possible!” Woojin exclaimed, almost dreamily. His face rested on his hand, and his eyes lost in the nothingness of the night sky. “But miss Jung is beautiful and nice!”

Wooyoung now switched sides. “Yeah, Woojin. Mum is beautiful and nice.”

“Stop lying both of you. I know how she makes stupid rules about not playing with Mingi!”

And it was true that Jung Yewon refused to let her three sons associate with anyone who had less than a million won in their bank account. Maybe that’s why Wooyoung never got to see his uncle who ran away with an ordinary librarian— _god_ , this family was a mess.

The boy kept on blabbering. “Besides, how cool will it be to be friends with a rock band!”

“A rock band?”

“Akari’s brother’s band. I forgot what they were called.”

_Sweet chaos._

Wooyoung found it hysterical how it had slipped from his memory— _Adachi Yuto, official family disappointment, and his band of misfits_ —Wooseok used to say that when Akari wasn’t around.

It was the go-to argument topic for the couple. No matter how perfect and beautiful Akari and Wooseok tried to look to the world, they bickered about the minutest details. And it was always Wooseok’s fault. He didn’t understand how every individual had a limit of compromising, and kept on pushing Akari over the edge of negotiation. Gangjae and Wooyoung’s mother had tried to pacify the dispute so many times, but Wooyoung knew so very well that Gangjae wasn’t a man for peace. Sometimes he actually had hopes and expectations from the man to resolve issues inside the Mansion, rather than playing rook and knight for park chunghee, but then he laughed at the capability of his mind to expect the ridiculous.

“Aren’t you already friends with them?” Mingi climbed on the table Woojin was seated on. The younger angrily glared at Mingi’s legs sprawled out on the grass, even after being seated, while his barely reaching the ground. He huffed, not ready to face defeat, and stood up to establish power.

“I mean, yeah, I talked to them once, but it was just the long-haired boy” he subconsciously pointed behind him, to the hall, at a group of four black-denim cladded, stereotypically metal-rock looking guests. Wooyoung’s eyes darted to the said group, shortly meeting with Yuto’s, who waved at him. He returned the gesture, quickly memorising the back of a tall, skinny kid, a black, long haired lad, and a strong girl. He did notice that the ones who had their back against him were turning around to figure out who Yuto was smiling at, but he averted his concentration back to his brother before he could associate himself.

+

There was a bandage on his head. He could feel the coarse fabric under his fingertips, bulged towards the back of his skull. He couldn’t move his neck that much—every attempt he made to do so shot an electrifying pain down his spine and up into his brain.

_Glass._

_Shattered glass? Solid._

He couldn’t see the time. The wall clock was way too far for his vision, it was way too dark anyway. He had forgotten where he had kept his glasses. He didn’t remember if he had it during the party last night. He pushed away the covers, and he could already feel the winter climb onto his skin underneath. 

_Dark, long hair. Silver. Nape._

Wooyoung found himself seated at the usual spot on the dining table. He managed to get just one lamp turned on, barely illuminating the grand room. The Christmas decorations were off the walls. Strange. Usually the staff wasn’t so swift in cleaning up after the party was over.

_Metal. Hammer._

His head pounded. A million needles making their way into his cranium. His vision worse than the already weak eyesight. 

_“Wooyoung.”_

_He was there. He glowed. All the lights in the place seemed to be coming out of his skin. He was beautiful. He didn’t have claws this time. Neither was his smile as sharp as the blade he was supposed to be holding. Where was the blade?_

_He was dressed in the most prettiest dark leather. He didn’t have snakes for hair, neither was his jacket made of spikes. He looked so normal._

Mingi had woken up. He bowed slightly, before pulling the curtains far apart. The daylight stung his eyes.

“Have you seen my glasses, Mingi?” Wooyoung asked. He had been sitting here for a long time. Hours, maybe. He didn’t really notice.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” he replied, already setting the cutlery for seven-thirty breakfast, “I haven’t seen it since the party.”

_“Do you like the tales of fallen angels, Wooyoung?”_

Jung Gangjae seemed to enjoy the day’s breakfast like any other normal day at the Mansion. He savoured the eggs with gusto, complimenting the chef every now and then like he always did. Wooyoung watched as the exaggeratedly sniffed the food, inhaling the aroma with all his might, then crushed the spoon in his mouth. His nose immediately crinkled with disgust, and he tried to divert his attention to anything else. 

His mother’s chair was empty. He could hear her talk loudly from the living room, but couldn’t comprehend what the conversation was about, or who would give her a call at such an hour. 

Wooseok was engrossed in reading the daily issue, while hardly eating anything from the table. Aunt and uncle seemed to be in their own world of stock market and film industry. Yunho and Woojin weren’t bickering as per the routine. Instead, the almost sulkily drank their soups and were silent throughout the conversation. 

Hours had passed. Wooyoung didn’t seem to notice.

_“Do you want to know what they did on earth?”_

_There was a table right behind the pretty-haired boy. And a chair. And on that chair sat Woojin._

“Why aren’t you eating, hyung?” Woojin asked him, pointing at his untouched bowl of rice and soup. He didn’t even realize he hadn’t eaten. He didn’t feel the hunger. He glanced at the food. It wasn’t warm anymore. He couldn’t trace the fumes. It looked bland. How could it look bland? Wooyoung enjoyed it every morning. But it looked bland today. Pale, flavourless, unappetizing. “Doctors said you should eat more food so you can get better.”

“Doctors?”

_Metal. Hammer. Nails. So many of them._

_A glass box. He was in a glass box with Woojin. He shouldn’t be in a glass box with Woojin. He can’t be near Woojin._

_The nails—long, but so many, lay so neatly on the table. The hammer was in his hand. He was smiling. Smiling at Woojin._

_Wooyoung couldn’t see Woojin’s face. His back was turned to him. He was shaking—was he crying? Wooyoung wanted this to stop, whatever it was._

It was barely a whisper, and he didn’t receive any reply. He repeated, a little louder: “doctors?”

“Yes, hyung. Doctors,” Woojin slurped the last bit of his soup. He was in his uniform. Why was he in his uniform? Wasn’t school supposed to start a day after New Year’s? “How do you think you got the bandage on your head, then?”

It hit him with an unimaginable amount of force. A blow. Wooyoung breathed out, confused. Confounded. He didn’t realize when Yunho’s parents left the table, or when Akari came in, bowed, and pulled Wooseok out with her. Gangjae took the last sip of his tea with a loud slurp, and started to silently whisper a prayer. Wooyoung’s head ached even more, his vision now turning black.

_“Place your hands on the table for me, will you?” He smiled at Woojin. The boy was shaking uncontrollably. Wooyoung could hear his sobs, he was crying so hard. He banged on the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four, five, six times._

_“You’re just a human, Wooyoung. You can’t possibly break this” the pretty-haired boy spoke, now turning his attention to Woojin. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”_

He ran his fingers across the rough fabric of the bandage—it was real. Woojin stood up, exiting the room. Wooyoung was left alone.

_He forced Woojin’s left hand on the table. He slammed it against the wood. The grip he had on it was too tight, it made the little boy choke another terrified stop. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?”_

_There was no way in. Wooyoung tried to find an entrance. It was just a solid glass container. There were plants inside. Wild flowers. Pinks, blues and yellows. And lots of greens. Just like the pretty-haired boy’s shirt._

Wooseok and Akari were fighting again. The house was empty, and they were too loud. Wooyoung could hear each and every word clearly from the upstairs corridor. He didn’t want to walk in during the fight, so he just sat on the stairs. Waiting. Just waiting for them to calm down. He shouldn’t be there, he knew it well. But his legs felt weak. He held onto the railing for his dear life. He thought of climbing down the stairs. Could he stand up? He wasn’t sure. 

_He placed one of the thin metals on Woojin’s fingernails. He warned him not to move. He held the nail steady with one hand, swung the hammer in the other, before hitting the rusted ferric hard with his tool. There was an ear-piercing scream. And so many cries._

_“P-please don’t do this” Wooyoung begged. He was crying too. The pretty-haired boy didn’t seem to listen. Another nail placed, this time on his ring finger. Woojin’s soft, white hands were now glistening with crimson. Thick, red liquid. And it hurt so much. “Don’t h-hurt him. Please…please don’t hurt hi—”_

_Another bang. Another hit. Another scream—“STOP, PLEASE!”_

“It wasn’t him who did that!” It was clear Akari was crying. And Wooyoung felt horrible. 

“Well whoever did it was brought into the party by him.” Wooyoung flinched at the volume. Wooseok was angry, way too angry.

_Third nail. Woojin screamed and cried. There was a lot of blood._

“What is he supposed to do about it, huh?”

_Wooyoung felt so helpless. So feeble. He couldn’t save him._

“Get him. Tell him to apologize to Wooyoung. I don’t know, let him pay for the expenses, or suffer equally or whatever the fuck—”

_“PLEASE JUST FUCKING STOP—”_

“San?”

_“—STOP IT SAN! STOP HURTING MY BROTHER!”_

“Whoever fuck he is. He better fix the shit he has done.”

_The hammer fell from his hands._

+

Wooseok thought it was enough of lounging around in the house, and Wooyoung made his way to SNU. It didn’t take him much time to find out what was entirely wrong in the house, and it gave him a bit of joy how the entire house was fucked-up-inside-completely-normal-on-the-out because of him.

The bandage on his head? The Christmas party was _fucking_ eventful. Just like last years—but in Wooyoung’s favour this time.

Sweet chaos was the name. Akari’s brother’s band. A group of rock wannabes (except Yuto, of course). Wooyoung had never actually heard them play, but it was a default setting to hate them. Akari had mentioned how they were formed just a year and a half ago. They usually played gigs in clubs that weren’t as big as octagon, but weren’t as small as that pathetic hut in Hongdae. It was all Yuto’s work—the money, the time, the collection—he got them together.

Wooyoung didn’t know the members well, but they had left a good impression on his mind. _A very good one._

There was a girl, the only one there, her beautiful dark curls covering the best part of her strong back, and a little bit of bangs on her moon-like forehead. He definitely knew Adachi Yuto, Akari’s younger brother. Perhaps the only one he has heard play. The drums that night when Akari and he went out for a little sister-in-law-brother-in-law bonding time. The rest of them weren’t there, but Yuto was enough of an impression, because _god_ he hadn’t heard anything as clean and flawless as that before. Yuto was swift and precise with his movements, and the short conversation he had with the sun kissed male proved his love for music.

On the other hand, Wooyoung didn’t know shit. Yuto was roughly a year more than his age, so whenever the Jungs and the Adachi came together, Yuto would come and sit with him and Woojin (and Mingi, in case it was the Jung Mansion). The older would go on about Deep Purple and Pink Floyd, and new waves and old school, while Wooyoung would just stare at the jingling chain on his left ear.

The only other person he knew from sweet chaos was Wonpil. They used to go to the same school, but they weren’t really friends back then. They were barely on talking terms, but it didn’t last long anyway. He wasn’t sure what the boy played for the band. At school, Wonpil would be seen doing almost everything—from singing in the choir, to banging drums for prom, or playing the harmonica for hopeless romantics.

And then there was _San._ It wasn’t even that clear of a memory, but it flashed in his mind once or twice. Long, black hair, and anger on his face. He had seen that face before. Pretty long hair. 

Woojin kept whining about the sweet given to him that day, but eventually ate it. Wooyoung had enough of the guests and meeting and pulling here and there and kids, so he made his way to the garden bar, with the intention of slumping on the counter rather than having an actual drink—he ended up having three anyway.

“Hey?” He heard—intoxicated, but conscious enough to not associate the voice with Jongho’s. _Jongho?_ He hated it. How it rang in the corner of his mind. But the voice was way too familiar. It seemed like it came out from within—a part of him. He turned around, facing a very blurry image of pretty-haired boy. _The_ pretty-haired boy. _His_ pretty-haired boy.

_God._

Wooyoung had come to the realization that he had drunk more than three glasses of something contenting, and a few more of those sickly bitter things.

But his lips moved. His pretty-haired boy was in front of him, staring right at him with creased eyebrows, muttering something so incoherently foreign, with an all so chronic sound. Wooyoung thought it was better to go back to resting his head so embarrassingly on the counter, and he did listen to the voice in his head saying _this is all bullshit, Jung—you’re fucking crazy anyway._

He didn’t remember much after that, except the sound of his head against glass, and the lancing ache in the back that followed it

Back at the Law Campus, they all looked at him like he was some kind of official from Panmunjom. He knew the khaki cap was a bad idea, but he had to do something to hide the bandage. He might have thought of himself as Nam Jeongim, but he was sure no one would look at him with disgust and a negative form of shock (except his mother, of course). Hyunggu and Beomgyu came to ask for his health, not really inquiring about the source and reason of his injury, which made it clear that everyone who stared at him while he walked _knew_ very well how it happened. 

It made him angry, but he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

+

Wooyoung had had enough of Civil Code.

He dramatically stood up, accommodated with the pity and attention he had been getting now, internally liking it more than anything else. Exiting the class, he rushed to the cafeteria. Girls clad in stockings and warm western sweaters, with loads of books in their hands walked past him. Yeosang asked him if he was alright too, which was surprising. The boy had made clear years ago: he didn’t want to associate himself with the rich brats, which left Wooyoung to talk to rich brat worshippers. 

Namely, Choi Soobin and Hwang Yeji.

They also came and went like the sun through the clouds, except additionally unpleasant and unwanted. Even the Chinese transfer students, who thought so highly of themselves, sat with him during his meal, giving him advices and Chinese herbal remedies.

It didn’t take him much time to conclude that his brain would detonate if he sat in the presence of anyone but himself. He carefully and respectfully excused himself, the burden of impressions, reputations and terms on his two feeble shoulders like seraph deprived of wings.

Maybe it was time to go back to Dr Lee. It was a very random thought, but it rang. But Dr Lee would ask him the same questions, again, and again, and _again_ —and whatever Wooyoung had tried to forget, would keep on being a part of him. Like the last dream he had.

He tried—with all his might—to erase it from his mind. He woke up with tears running down his face, and erratic breathing—and no one to wipe them off his face, and embrace him in their arms. _San._

The last of mankind, or hell-swine he wanted to see.

He bit him with the sharp teeth from inside out.

“Jung Wooyoung?”

“Hm?” The response came almost immediately, unknowing of who or what talked to him. It was a reflex. He wished it wasn’t in his code.

San spoke. _San_ spoke. “Hello.”

He extended his hand, the proximity between them was unholy. How did he reach here? Wooyoung had no answer. Wooyoung, however, was well aware that he was supposed to respond with a handshake. But did he want to? Absolutely no. He just looked at the hand in front of him, and the black leather covering the arm. He then looked at the boy, confused.

San retreated the hand, smiling awkwardly, going back to leaning against the entrance wall. _That’s what he was doing._

Wooyoung had so, so many questions in his mind and if either of them made any movement he would spill them out of his tongue. To his luck, no one moved. And then it started to become worse than the idea of starting an interrogation.

“Who are you?” That was the worse of what Wooyoung could ask him. He knew the boy well enough to turn him to the cops. Or maybe Dr Lee.

“ _Oh._ I am Choi San.” He extended his hand again, presumably out of habit, and Wooyoung wanted to dissolve in the ground. “Aka—I am sorry, _Yuto_ told me to come here. He told me you will be out by three. I just thought it would be better if I came here early, but I think it’s way too early.”

He spoke to nicely to be from hell. Maybe he was initially from heaven. Maybe he ate the golden apple just like Wooyoung did, except he had a different role on earth.

_“Do you want to know what they did on earth?”_

_Cardinal Albino Luci_ —buzz— _successor_ —buzz— _dies after thrit_ —buzz— _new pope_.

The watchman’s television wasn’t working.

Wooyoung just wanted to go home. San didn’t look like he was going to let that happen. He slid his hands into his pockets, still smiling so _tranquilly_. “I am here to…apologize?”

_Oh._ Wooyoung managed to choke it out.

“Yeah. I am sorry for…” he pointed at his head. He was a bit taller than him. Maybe it was his shoes. Looked suspicious. “…that.”


End file.
